


Perfect Imperfections

by sokkattome



Series: Secrets, Secrets [2]
Category: Avatar: The Last Airbender
Genre: Angst, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-11
Updated: 2021-01-11
Packaged: 2021-03-17 01:47:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 696
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28592016
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sokkattome/pseuds/sokkattome
Summary: An Azula angst oneshot for my Zukka & Tyzula series, but can be read on its own.
Relationships: Azula & Zuko (Avatar)
Series: Secrets, Secrets [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2095071
Comments: 2
Kudos: 41





	Perfect Imperfections

**Author's Note:**

> TW: self harm, described in “poetic terms” (idk how else to describe but if you are apprehensive do not read! this is not technically canon in my fic, just related kind of, and your mental health comes first always)  
> proceed with caution and please be safe!

Azula had perfect skin.

It was clear and smooth—never too dry or too oily. Puberty hadn’t marred it with acne scars; Azula had been spared from the rash entirely. Other girls had stretch marks around their thighs, but not Azula.

Azula had perfect skin.

She studied it often: she spent hours in front of a mirror, mesmerized by the inhuman nature of it all. Without bright red pimples or a splash of freckles, there was nothing to detract from her stark amber eyes, contrasted so deeply against her pale skin. A few strands of hair escaped her topknot, falling gently onto her forehead. The dark hair only added to the image. Ursa had once likened her to Snow White; though Snow White was many shades whiter, the contrast of pale skin, dark hair, bright eyes, and red lips was enough to qualify her.

With the lights off—the only source of light being the moon, pouring in from the open window—Azula’s hair looked black. 

She looked like Ursa.

Slowly, she reached up to her topknot, watching her nimble fingers move in her reflection as she tore out the hair-tie and the black locks came tumbling down. They stopped at her waist. Azula had never cut her hair before. The hair fell flat around her face, framing either side to create a heart-shape.

She looked like Ursa.

The silver shears shone in the moonlight, winking at her from their place beneath her.

Azula did not have perfect skin anymore. She hadn’t for years.

When Azula was thirteen, she took up that pair of shears and drew red lines on her wrists. On her thighs, she marked where the stretch marks would have been. She drew what should have been there already. She drew to make her human. She drew that spark Ursa had known she didn’t have. 

But Azula had never been much of an artist, and the lines bled together, leaving behind a mess she couldn’t erase. 

Her brother found her surveying the disaster from the bathroom floor. He had held her, gently extracting the silver blades from her iron grip, and showed her what he’d drawn. He’d drawn to hide. He’d drawn to cover up what Ozai had known he could never come back from. He’d drawn to feel nothing, when everything was too much. Zuko was an artist, though, and he knew exactly how to bury the extra strokes until no one would guess they’d ever been made.

The same shining scissors sat before her on the vanity.

Azula picked up the scissors. She lifted them to her face, held up her hair, and closed the blades around the inky mane until it pooled the floor around her. Staring back at her shorn hair in the glass, Azula pulled aside the hair on the left side of her face for the final touch.

As her jagged ends fell back into place, completely obscuring her left eye, Azula was almost satisfied.

Almost.

There was one more thing she needed to do. 

In the winter, every fireplace in the Sozin household blazed all day and all night. They were a family that favored fire: if something wasn’t satisfactory, let it burn. If someone wasn’t satisfactory, let them burn. Although meeting expectations hadn’t spared Azula from the flames.

Carefully, with militaristic precision, Azula gathered the denounced hair from the floor, carrying it down the stairs. Being sure to leave not a strand behind.

The closest fireplace was in the front entrance. Azula surpassed it and stopped in front of the fireplace in the room adjacent to the kitchen.

The flames danced, reaching further and further up the chimney: their ceiling was open, they strained to escape—but they stayed within the few square feet the house had given them. Forever reaching and forever falling short.

Azula threw the hair in the fire. It took a moment to catch, but when it did the flames ate it happily. The familiar smell of burnt hair wafted through the room, the taste palpable as Azula swallowed back the memory.

Azula watched the destruction, unmoving, until every lock was lost to the world above.

Satisfied, Azula returned to bed.

**Author's Note:**

> i am very against the romanticization of sh and i wrote this for myself, but if you think it crosses a line please let me know and i will take it down! much love


End file.
